The psychic parrots
won’t stop staring at me.
This world is a mousetrap,
it’s best to keep moving.
See how I’m moving?
See how I crouch,
weep into a small tape recorder.
My recordings of clattering forests.
My recordings of laughter from backstage.
Then I light a pipe on burial grounds
before ducking into the rain,
parting the group of yawning trainees.
“No one understands,”
I tell my wife
as she begins to serve
a rippling meal!
My recordings of lost bus drivers.
My recordings of a kiss on the balcony.
There are trapdoors on Earth.
I bury a little feather
while Angels die and are born,